“Promette?” Promise?
“Prometto.”
He sighs deeply and mutters something I don’t understand and then releases my arm.
“Follow me.” He navigates a path through the crowd of men. Some I’ve seen before during the planning phase of the chapel; some I recognize from my dinner in the mess hall, but the rest are new faces. They say hello to Trombello, calling him Padre, and then offer shy greetings to me, and a cautious bella here and there, eliciting a harsh glare from my guide. I pick up the smell of unwashed men and hold my breath to hide my reaction. But overall, the prisoners are courteous, parting for me like the Red Sea in Exodus.
In front of Archbishop Cicognani, Trombello kneels.
“Vostra Eccellenza, I show to you—Miss Santini.”
“Your Excellency,” I say with a curtsy, taking his offered hand and kissing his ring, hoping I’m behaving in accordance with proper protocol.
“You’re doing a good work here, Miss Santini.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” I fight off the urge to curtsy or bow every time I speak. He asks of my family and my parish; he speaks of Father Theodore as though he knows him well. I wonder if they reveal to one another what their parishioners confess. Is that covered by the seal of confession? I’d ask Trombello, but only a guilty person asks such questions.
“Miss Santini, I’ve heard you are a singer; is that right?” I want to deny it, but I can’t fib to this man of God.
“I am, Your Excellency.”
“Would you lead us in a closing hymn?”
“We have no hymnals,” I protest.
“It doesn’t matter much if they join you,” the archbishop reassures me. “Your voice raised in praise is sufficient, my child.”
He points to the open space in front of him, and I step forward, unable to refuse his holy request. The crowd goes still and silent, the birds chittering in the trees my only musical introduction.
I’m used to a big band playing me in and a microphone to project my voice. And usually, it’s young American soldiers in the audience, not our sworn enemies. But at this moment, in this meadow that is now considered hallowed ground, and in front of the altar of our shared religion, I sing to them as brothers in faith and children of a shared God.
A clutch of birds takes flight on my first note. I haven’t warmed up or practiced, so my voice catches in a few spots as I struggle to remember the verses of the Latin hymn I’ve sung in the Holy Trinity choir.
At first I sing alone, but soon Trombello joins in with a rich baritone, making me jump at first and then smile with gratitude. He knows the words better than I do, and with his bravery on display, the rest of the workers add their voices when we reach the chorus, timidly at first and then with increasing gusto, until the meadow reverberates with the song of praise as though we’re singing in a grand cathedral.
We conclude our song, the echo of our raised voices still vibrating as Archbishop Cicognani says a few more words. He keeps it brief, those in the crowd growing restless knowing they have plenty of work ahead. Trombello walks with the archbishop as he departs with an armed pair of guards, leaving behind the cross where the altar will be and a symbolic stone placed where the foundation will be dug in the newly hallowed ground.
I retrieve my bag with the plans.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Gondi says in Italian as he reviews the drawings. “We heard you are a prima donna, and it looks to be true.”
I think of the business card in my waistband and shrug.
“Well, not exactly but maybe one day.”
“One day, when?” he asks. “You won’t find ‘one day’ here with ruffians like us,” he says, gesturing to the men in blue prison uniforms, “or that American cretino at the mess hall. Your boyfriend?”
My spine stiffens at the mention of Tom.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Not yet,” Gondi says, pointing his finger up like he’s made a discovery. “But let’s say bread for bread and wine for wine. He’s un donnaiolo.”
A womanizer. I know the term is a dirty one. And though things with Tom are in a very rocky place, he’s always seemed deeply interested in me, only me. And I guess Pearl . . . perhaps . . .
I scoff, the purity of the religious moment gone.
“You don’t understand. It’s very complex, me working here. He was only being—what’s the word? Oh. Protective.”
Cresci, sweaty and out of breath, joins the conversation. “Who? That American stronzo? Don’t let him make you a fool.”
“I don’t plan on it,” I mutter, tucking a curl behind my ear. I ready my pencil to take notes on the progress on the site using cement blocks and a piece of wood for a makeshift desk.
“It’s him you need protection from, not us,” Cresci continues. “We’re your countrymen. Your blood comes from our home.”
I slap my hand against the wooden surface but withhold my instinctive response. My father could be right—I shouldn’t be here. Even the prisoners think I’m one of them. What happens if Lieutenant Colonel Gammell starts to question my allegiances?
“Don’t you two have work to do?” Trombello asks, walking up the slight hill from the road, his sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned now that the archbishop’s departed. A tuft of dark hair peeks out through the V at his collarbone.
“Yes, Father,” Gondi says, eyes cast downward.
“Sorry, Father,” Cresci says, grabbing the wheelbarrow next to the table. “Speak some sense to the girl,” he adds quietly to Trombello, as though I won’t hear it.
“Worry about your own grass, Vincenzo. Yes?” Cresci nods and heads off to literally tend to his own grass.
“They really respect you.”
“They used to call me Father to make fun, but over time it changed, I think.” He unrolls the chapel’s plans on the table, his forearm brushing my hand as it crosses me. He stoops and places two large rocks on each end of the rectangle, and I notice the fresh dirt under his neatly trimmed nails. It reminds me of Aria and then of my mother.
When I was a child, my mother showed me how to dig a hole in the tilled garden soil deep enough to provide protection for the vulnerable seeds. I remember her delicate hands on mine, a thin film of soil the only thing between us. Those are the good memories, the ones I know Aria relives when she loses herself in the garden. I’m more interested in forgetting that version of my mother. Remembering her fondly brings me no comfort, not when I know she’ll never be my loving teacher or protector again.
But when I see Trombello’s hands, the dirt under his nails, it brings up repressed longing for a caring, consistent guide. And leaves me wondering what his hand would feel like over mine.
No. I shake the involuntary and completely inappropriate question away, forcing myself to return to the conversation at hand.